Fourth of July
by CritterKeeper
Summary: A nice relaxing day off? For Darien, maybe, but relaxed is not Hobbes' style...


I really did start writing this one last July 4th, got partway through, and then it just kinda sat there for a while. I went back and re-read it again this week, knew exactly where it needed to go, and finished it. Here's hoping this means my muses are out of hibernation! :-)  
  
  
Fourth of July  
by CritterKeeper  
  
  
"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear." -Ambrose Redmoon   
  
Bobby Hobbes was never quite at ease in crowds. Hell, Bobby Hobbes was never at ease, period, but crowds were worse. So many people you could never keep track of them all, moving every which way until you had no clue who might be coming at you or sneaking up behind you. He was pretty good at spotting a tail, in fact he was the best, but sometimes, even the best wasn't enough to keep you from getting killed.  
  
*So why am I here?* he wondered for the millionth time.  
  
The answer, of course, was strolling along a bit ahead of him, cheerfully people-watching and oblivious to the potential dangers all around them. His partner, Darien Fawkes, was still so green you could graze cattle on him. He'd been a thief before becoming an agent, but somehow managed to give an impression of innocence. To Hobbes he seemed terribly vulnerable. Loyalty to his partner was a part of Bobby's code, and teaching Fawkes a healthy paranoia was part of keeping him safe, but on days like this Hobbes was ready to throw up his hands in disgust.  
  
And that wasn't even taking into account his partner's taste in clothes. The kid was holding up a shirt that looked like a fast food joint's uniform. All it needed was a logo on the breast pocket.  
  
"Uh-uh," Hobbes told him firmly, taking the shirt out of his hands and steering him away by the elbow.  
  
"What? Hobbes, I was looking at that shirt!"  
  
"I am saving you from your own bad taste, my friend." He glanced at the horizon, where the sun was low and the clouds turning orange and red. "Besides, it's about time we got out of here."  
  
"What are you talking about, Hobbes? The Fair is going to go on for hours yet, and c'mon, we *can't* leave before the fireworks! It wouldn't be the Fourth of July without fireworks!"  
  
"First of all, I'll have you know that today is Independence Day. We are gathered to celebrate our independence from having to bow down to a king. To honor the men and women in the service who have helped us keep that independence. You can't just call it by the date, my friend. It's disrespectful."  
  
"Okay, okay! So it won't be Independence Day without fireworks. Is that better?"  
  
"Much better. Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"You wanted to come to Kensington Beach for the Fair, we've been wandering around eating lousy food and looking at booths selling overpriced schlock all afternoon. You wanted to see the parade, we saw the lousy parade. Which, I might add, definitely did *not* have the proper respect for the purpose of the day. I mean, putting red, white, and blue ribbons around a twenty-foot-long corporate logo is not my idea of patriotism. You think the kids watching that parade had any idea what it was all about?"  
  
"They probably thought it was about people throwing them candy."  
  
"My point exactly! Kids these days don't learn anything in school, my friend! They don't learn anything from their parents. It's a sad day when the color guard goes by and only half a dozen people bother to stand up and salute or put their hands over their hearts!"  
  
"But, Hobbes, that's exactly why you should stay for the fireworks! All those bangs and flashes are to commemorate the guns and cannons and rockets of the battles. 'And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air...' It's *very* patriotic! They even start with the National Anthem."  
  
"Yeah, and I don't want to be here to get depressed all over again, when that song starts playing and nobody stands up. Besides, if we stick around until after the fireworks, this place is gonna turn into one massive traffic jam. And may I remind you that *I* am gonna be the one to have to fight that traffic?"  
  
"You could let me drive..."  
  
"No way. My van, I drive."  
  
"Your van. Hey, partner, I think it belongs to the Agency."  
  
"Okay, you know what, it doesn't matter, my friend, because I am still going to be the one driving it out of here tonight. Which, as I said, is going to be as soon as we can get through this mob and back to it."  
  
"Oh, c'mon, Hobbes, it's *fun*! You do remember what fun is, don't you? Or have you got a hot date tonight you didn't tell me about?"  
  
"No, I do not have a date. I could have a date if I wanted to. I could have 'em lined up around the block if I wanted to, you know what I mean. But the fact is that I *chose* not to have a date tonight, I *chose* to have a quiet evening at home, which is what I want to go do, if you don't mind."  
  
"But, Hobbes, you see, I *do* mind. I mean, I look forward to this. This is one of the big holidays. The fireworks are something I used to go watch with my family every year. If you're not gonna stay with me, then I'm just gonna have to stay here and watch them alone, and I'm telling you, that's just not the same."  
  
"Oh, yeah? And how are you going to get home afterwards, my friend? Think you're gonna be able to catch a cab anywhere within a mile of this place? It is gonna be a madhouse! Not that we can afford cabs, with what the Agency pays us anyway. Although I dunno, maybe a GS-6 can afford a cab just fine, but you're not gonna be able to get a cab."  
  
"So I'll walk. It's a nice night, I could probably make it home before midnight."  
  
"You're gonna walk through your neighborhood at midnight? I don't think so, Fawkes. I let you do that, you get yourself mugged. Anything happens to that precious head of yours, it is me that they're going to come after. I ain't letting you do that, either."  
  
"So, I guess you'll just have to stick around and give me a ride, then." Fawkes was grinning at him triumphantly, which annoyed the hell out of Hobbes but was part of that endearing charm the kid had, too. He kinda made you want to let him win. Hobbes definitely did not want to let him win this time, but he was running out of reasonable arguments. He wasn't feeling reasonable about this one, though.  
  
Fawkes' grin started to fade. Hobbes knew what would come next; concern about how unreasonable he was being, questions about what was wrong. He definitely wasn't in the mood for the third degree, especially from someone he knew was worried about him. He sighed inwardly, then threw up his hands.  
  
"Fine, fine, you win! You want to watch the fireworks, we'll watch the freakin' fireworks." Hobbes strode off ahead of his partner, heels smacking the pavement angrily. He fought to get himself under control, knowing he was showing bad grace, 'unreasonable hostility' as his shrink would put it.  
  
His shrink. What was she gonna think about this one? He wondered longingly if he'd be able to get through to her, after this was over, whether he could get away with calling her at home so late without pissing her off. He had a terrible feeling he'd need to, whether it pissed her off or not.  
  
  
  
Two hours and dozens of cheesy little booths later, it was finally getting dark out. The crowds were shifting down to the beach and the rooftops, jostling for prime viewing space with people whose blankets and lawn chairs had been spread since noon.  
  
Darien had been a little subdued after Hobbes' outburst -- for about two minutes. Then that boyish enthusiasm began to reassert itself, and now his partner was practically bouncing on his toes as he plowed through the crowds. To Hobbes' surprise, he headed not for the beach, but for a little grassy park half a block up and a bit to the side. Only a few people were about, most of them heading closer to the launch site.  
  
"Alright! Our spot's still there!" Darien darted up a little grassy rise and sank down cross-legged in one smooth motion, craning his neck to check the view of the sky. "Trees have grown a little bit, but I think we can still get a good view."  
  
Hobbes was surprised Fawkes didn't want to be in the midst of the throngs, right under the bangs and flashes where the noise was loudest and the lights brightest. "You wanna watch from all the way back here?"  
  
"Yeah, Mom brought us here a couple of times, when I was little. I wanted to be closer, but she didn't really like the crowds, so she found a spot where we could still see everything." He glanced up a Hobbes, still standing next to him, his tone softer, almost apologetic. "Besides, this'll give you a jump on getting back to the van before the traffic gets too bad."  
  
Sighing, Hobbes settled down onto the grass next to his partner. The kid was trying. It wasn't his fault he didn't know what he was asking. And he never would, if Hobbes had anything to say about it. A big 'if' there.  
  
They could hear the patriotic big band music back on the beach, echoing off of the buildings behind them so that the words repeated half a second later. Darien's feet tapped to the rhythm of the original notes, ignoring the echo, but it set Hobbes' teeth on edge. No, he had to admit, that wasn't what was getting to him. He knew what was starting to give him a headache, what was making his palms sweat. He waited until Fawkes was looking away at a pretty girl on rollerblades, then discretely dug a couple of pills out of his jacket pocket and swallowed them dry. He'd gotten very good at swallowing pills, although he hadn't needed as many of them since partnering with Fawkes.  
  
*He's been good for me,* Hobbes thought, *and I owe him. I can handle this, if it'll make him so happy.*  
  
It was finally full dark, and the loudspeakers echoed across the park and up and down the beach. "PLEASE RISE FOR OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM." Hobbes was on his feet in an instant, hand over his heart, gazing down between tree branches towards the little flagpole where the color guard were lowering the stars and stripes. He could feel Fawkes scrambling up belatedly. He was pleasantly surprised to see that over half the crowd was standing, at least among those he could see from here. A few kids even took off their baseball caps.  
  
He started to get a little teary-eyed, as he always did thinking about the words of this song. About the poet, captured by the British, straining his eyes to see whether the flag, the symbol of his fledgling country, had been hauled down by the enemy, or whether his compatriots were still there, still fighting, still defending the ideals that would grow into the greatest country on Earth.  
  
He only felt a twinge of annoyance at Fawkes when he mischievously called out, "Play ball!" at the end of the Anthem. Bobby Hobbes wasn't totally without a sense of humor. He settled for rolling his eyes, then sank back on the grass, leaning on his elbows, wishing the booths selling sodas and bottled water weren't so far away. His mouth was dry, even though the back of his neck was damp with sweat.  
  
A dull, muffled *thump* announced the launch of the first rocket. *Here we go,* Hobbes thought.  
  
They were far enough away for there to be half a second's delay between the burst of colored sparks that puffed out like a purple cotton ball, and the sound of the explosion that had sent those sparks flying. Another half second, and the echo from behind them reached his ears at the same time as another muffled rocket launch.  
  
*See? You can handle this, my friend,* Hobbes thought as a series of red, white and blue bursts of light kicked off the display. His fingers dug into the grass beside him. He felt his body jerk slightly with each report. *You can handle this.*  
  
He could trace the course of the missiles from where they were launched, could see they were headed nowhere near him. Another one burst into a rather dull yellowish cluster of pale sparks, then each pale spark flashed brilliantly, like a flashbulb going off. Or like the muzzle flash from a rifle.  
  
A moment later, the corresponding series of cracks hit, overlapping with the echo behind him. Hobbes jumped in spite of himself, fought the urge to roll over and throw his arms over his head, to get down off this damned exposed ridge and run for cover. He could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps.  
  
*It's only fireworks,* he told himself, but his body didn't believe it. The part of his mind that stored up all the crap he'd gone through wouldn't believe it. It sounded too damned much like gunfire, like he was in the middle of a shelling. Under attack.  
  
He could smell the gunpowder, even though the breeze was headed out to sea at this hour. He was suddenly certain he was losing it, that he was going to curl up in a little whimpering ball and make a spectacle of himself. He was almost more afraid of that than he was of the memories crowding into his brain.  
  
The only thing stopping him from fleeing, from going home and hiding, was his partner, lying on the grass beside him, oblivious to Hobbes' plight, enjoying the fireworks just like he had as a kid. He would *not* let Fawkes see him break! Darien needed a mentor, he needed a partner he could count on to watch his back and an example to follow on how to act under fire. He did not need to see that mentor reduced to goo by a bunch of loud noises. *No matter how much those noises sounded like....no, don't even think about it!* His shrink had warned him about the vicious circle, the way his thoughts could spiral down and drag him with them. He had to break loose.  
  
He turned his eyes back up to the sky determinedly. He'd focus on his eyes, not his ears. He could watch each burst of color, and mentally brace himself for the sound of explosives, of air-to-ground missiles and rifle volleys. Of friends and comrades, screaming and dying around him.  
  
His eyes closed at the thought, and that made it ten times worse. The roll of sound coming at him from all sides threatened to overwhelm him. He was back in the field of battle, too many battles to count, and he'd feel metal tearing through his flesh before he ever heard the sound of its launch towards him.  
  
"That was a pretty one!" Fawkes, beside him, murmured. Wrenching his eyes open, Hobbes saw the tail end of an enormous burst of white sparks, covering half the sky. He realized he'd totally lost track of the aesthetics of the display, too busy watching for flashes and bracing for the wash of memory each one presaged. He forced his mind to look at the colors, the shapes, to wonder how they managed to make those little sparks form a heart shape in the air.  
  
"How do they do that?" he whispered back. "I didn't know they could, like, paint pictures in the sky like that." He was proud of how normal his voice sounded in his own ears. How in control. Totally at odds with the tumult in his head.  
  
"I dunno...I think it has something to do with the shape of the stuff inside the rocket."  
  
"And all those different colors, I wonder how long it took them to figure out how to do all that."  
  
"The Chinese started it, maybe they figured out the color stuff."  
  
"Nuh-uh. A few bangs and flashes. I'm betting it took good old American know-how to get stuff like big red hearts and sparks that turn three different colors before fading."  
  
Talking to Fawkes helped. He was still trembling inside, but he got his breathing under control and he wasn't jumping at every rifle crack any more. He could *almost* believe it was fun. Not safe; Bobby Hobbes never felt safe. But as close as he could get.  
  
When it was over, Darien cheering and clapping at the finale, they brushed off the grass and leaves and headed back to the van. Hobbes was chagrined to note the gouges he'd made in the turf where his fingers had dug convulsively into the dirt and grass. He didn't think Fawkes had noticed in the dark, though, and that was the important part.  
  
Hobbes knew he was nuts. People talked about getting well, but to him, most of that boiled down to getting better at hiding how nuts he was, about not letting it show, not inflicting his problems on others around him. On that score, tonight was a real triumph.  
  
They walked back to the van, Hobbes striding and Darien, on his longer legs, ambling beside him. They were indeed ahead of the bulk of the crowd, and Hobbes was hoping to beat the worst of the traffic snarl. It wasn't until they were halfway to Fawkes' place that Hobbes realized how uncharacteristically quiet his partner was.  
  
"Hey, Hobbes?" Fawkes asked tentatively, hesitantly. Hobbes swore mentally; maybe he hadn't hidden his problem as well as he'd thought.  
  
"Yeah?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road, watching for street signs even though he knew the way from here without them. He didn't quite trust his voice yet. He was still shaking inside. He knew better than to expect it all to go away in a few minutes. He'd be on the edge for days.  
  
"Never mind." His partner sank back into his seat, gazing out the window.  
  
Hobbes let him be until they pulled up in front of Fawkes' apartment complex, then he put the van into park and turned off the engine, turning to face the younger man, visible in a street lamp's glow.  
  
"C'mon, partner, spit it out. What's on your mind?"  
  
He'd gotten pretty good at recognizing his partner's moods. Fawkes looked thoughtful, a bit uncertain, worried. He wondered again whether his partner had noticed what he was going through. But he'd learned long ago that if he asked people about his problems, it only drew attention to them, and he was starting to believe that maybe other people *weren't* watching him and judging him all the time. His therapist said that was a huge step forward.  
  
"Hobbes...." Darien paused, licked his lips nervously. "Back there, watching the fireworks...something happened...."  
  
Aw, crap, he *had* noticed. "What do you mean, partner?" he asked, trying to buy time, to figure out what he would say. The fears started to well up in him again. Fear of being found out, fear of losing his partner's respect, fear of losing it, period.  
  
"All those bangs and flashes. They sounded like...this may sound crazy, but for a minute there, it wasn't fireworks any more. It was...gunfire." He swallowed convulsively. "Back at the lab...."  
  
"Claire's lab?" Hobbes asked, confused.  
  
"No. Kevin's lab." He looked out the window, unable to meet Hobbes' eyes. "For a minute, I was back there."  
  
This put a totally different spin on things. It was his partner who was in trouble here. Hobbes could put his own problems on the back burner now. He had to. His partner needed him.  
  
"It's called a flashback, Darien. When something terrible happens to you, it doesn't just disappear. A sight, or a sound, or a smell, and it all comes back to you." He thought about what his therapists had told him. "It can help to talk about it, my friend."  
  
"I was...I'd gone quicksilver mad once, and Arnaud had convinced them it had happened again. They had me strapped down, in restraints. And then I started hearing gunfire...and explosions...and I was trapped, I couldn't do anything, and I was so scared of what they'd do to me, and to Kevin, and I couldn't help him...."  
  
Hobbes could see tears glimmering on Fawkes' cheeks. He had to guide his partner past the fear. Help him get past it, not get sucked into it the way Hobbes had been so many times.  
  
"But you did get out. Tell me. How did it happen? Did Kevin let you loose?"  
  
"No. I stole a pen, from one of the doctors. Used it to get out of the restraints." He smiled faintly. "But Kevin was coming to get me. We ran into each other, literally."  
  
"You see, you weren't so helpless." He tried to be strong, be positive, like his shrink had been for him when he talked about Beirut and the Gulf and all the other versions of Hell he'd seen.  
  
"We were running. All around us, gunfire, and grenades, and screams."  
  
Fawkes was shaking, hugging his arms around his body as if trying to hold himself together physically. Hobbes wanted so badly to comfort, to pull his partner out of it. But he had to see this through. He knew the worst was yet to come. Better to deal with it now than to let it keep silently twisting up his partner's insides. "Go on," he whispered softly.  
  
"Kevin was headed somewhere, and I was following him. We ran around a corner, and there was a man there...with a gun...." His voice trailed off. Hobbes waited a long moment before Fawkes spoke again. "Kevin....pushed me back. Behind a support pillar. Out of the...line of...fire...."  
  
He broke down sobbing, and now Hobbes did comfort him, holding him in his arms and rubbing his back as if he were a child.  
  
"It's okay, Darien, you're safe now. You survived."  
  
"Why me, Hobbes? Why not Kevin? He was the genius, he wanted to make the world a better place, he was the good one, I was the screw-up! Why am I alive and he's gone?"  
  
"It doesn't matter. You survived, and that's a good thing. It really is." He could tell him it was what Kevin wanted, try to give him a sense of duty or make him feel like he owed it to his brother to do good with the gland, but all that was just baggage. In the end, it really didn't matter.  
  
"He died in my arms, and I couldn't do anything about it." Darien pulled back, looked Hobbes in the eye. "And it still wasn't over. There were still guns, and grenades, and screams. I had to sneak out, and I was afraid for my life every second. I was so scared, the quicksilver came easily. And I let the madness carry me. I killed the one who'd shot Kevin, and I killed a guy in the van so I could use it to get away, and I don't remember anything in between, but I think I must have killed others on the way. I don't remember!"  
  
"You remember as much as you can handle, partner. Let the rest of it go. It was self-defense, just let it go." Amnesia was another symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.   
  
Darien rubbed the tears out of his eyes. "This is stupid. It's all over, it's been over for a long time. Kevin's dead."  
  
"It's *not* stupid. It's human. You went through a war, my friend, and I've seen a lot worse reactions than this. Some people don't deal with it nearly as well. You're okay. You hear me? You're okay."  
  
Bobby'd seen a lot worse reactions, all right, in the field, in the VA hospital, and in the mirror. Especially in the mirror. But he'd gotten through it, and Fawkes would too.  
  
For a minute Hobbes thought about telling his partner he should talk to a shrink, maybe even send his partner to his shrink. But he could imagine Fawkes' reaction to that suggestion. Most people didn't want to think they needed help. He knew the kid pretty well by now. Therapy was out.  
  
He'd just have to help him as best he could on his own. After years of therapy, Hobbes knew as much about PTSD and flashbacks as most of his shrinks did. He could remember stuff his shrinks had told him, stuff that seemed pointless or irrelevant at the time, that he knew now was the most important stuff.  
  
Hobbes watched Fawkes come out of it, glance around and remember where they were. He unlatched his seat belt, getting ready to head up to his apartment.  
  
"You want me to come up with you? Talk, watch some videos, play a little pool?"  
  
"Nah." Darien rubbed his face as if he were tired, but Hobbes suspected there were tears in the kid's eyes he couldn't see in the dark. "Nah, I'm okay. Really. I'm just gonna get some sleep. The 'fish might not be able to make us work on a Federal holiday, but I think he's gonna make up for it tomorrow."  
  
Fawkes started to get out of the van, but Hobbes caught his arm. "Hey, partner. You need to talk, you have any nightmares, or anything, you give me a call, okay?"  
  
Something in Darien's reaction told Bobby that his partner was expecting nightmares, that he'd had them before. Didn't surprise Bobby Hobbes. Kid probably relived the attack a lot, in the line of work he was in. Nightmares, like flashbacks, were part of the territory.  
  
"You got it, partner," Darien answered awkwardly. Hobbes knew he didn't mean it, that the kid had no intention of calling him. But the offer was there. And if things got bad, in the night, now or down the line, maybe he'd remember. Maybe he'd call, when he really had to talk.  
  
Fawkes disappeared into his building, and Hobbes sat for a long minute before he started up the van again. His hands were shaking. He'd just realized what a responsibility he was taking on. He was so screwed up himself, what did he think he was doing, trying to help somebody else with their mental problems? What if he got it wrong, what if he made the kid worse? What if Fawkes wound up as screwed up as he was?  
  
Hobbes dealt with physical dangers every day. Guns, bombs, mooks, no problem. He took care of his partner when the madness threatened, and when it clawed its way into the kid's mind and took over. But this was bigger, scarier, less clear cut. He knew what to do with guns or a red tattoo. He didn't know what to do with this.  
  
He thought again longingly of dumping the problem into someone else's lap. A shrink, a support group, maybe even the Keeper. But Fawkes would never forgive him.  
  
It all fell on him.  
  
Well, not all. He might not be able to get Fawkes to see a shrink, but that didn't mean he couldn't talk to his own shrink about it. Bobby Hobbes didn't think he'd ever needed to talk to his shrink so badly in his life.  
  
To hell with the hour. Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.   
  
  
  
"It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life, that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself." -Ralph Waldo Emerson 


End file.
